With Great Power
by OrigamiPaperAngel
Summary: Splendid x Lammy - Once again, Lammy finds herself jailed for crimes she doesn't believe she committed. However, this time there's someone just dying to meet her - and he's not all that he seems. Even heroes make mistakes, but what of evil deeds...?


**Author's Note**: Hey there! This is my first "Happy Tree Friends" fan fiction, along with my first story in a whole new writing style, inspired by Caro Emerald's ___Deleted Scenes from the Cutting Room Floor _song descriptions and the urgent present tense Susan Collins uses in her trilogy "The Hunger Games".

As such, I ask that reviewers keep my inexperience in mind while voicing their opinions on my work, though I do adore constructive criticism! I am well aware that this is far from perfect, being my first attempt and all. I promise I won't bite if you take the time to really tell me what you thought. This is my first try, after all, so I'd love to hear how you think it came out, such as what worked and what didn't. (Like, were there punctuation errors I didn't catch? Was the grammar and word flow good? If you say you don't like the couple, well, that's only a matter of personal preference and I can't improve my writing on that, but if you tell me the logic in my characterization of Splendid was faulty, and explain why, that would be great, etc. etc...)

* Oh, and a little note as to the story itself - I couldn't choose between humanizing the characters or keeping them in their original, animalistic forms, so I leave it up to your imagination. :D You can see them as animals, or as humans; whatever your preference may be, go for it!

Well then, I hope you enjoy, and if you would be so kind, please do review afterward and tell me what you thought! :)

* * *

"With great power comes great responsibility."

- Uncle Ben, "Spider-man**"**

* * *

She couldn't even fight back if she tried, but as it is, the convicted assailant has been reduced from a nightmarish killing machine to a trembling, unrecognizable pile of tears. Her thin wrists are pinned together by the police department's sturdy handcuffs; when they heard of her criminal record, they cuffed her feet, too, just for good measure. She's a hardened criminal, he thinks, a villainess, really: bewitching, seductive and totally destructive if set free. Yet here she is, all tied up, defenseless, and ready for retribution ... from him, of course, the only one the police force trusts with such a ___dangerous _criminal.

And so it is just the two of them in the secluded jail cell, the righteous hero and the nefarious miscreant. It is their first meeting and before the names have even been exchanged he can tell her guilt and fear has already snatched away her ability to speak. She must be in awe of him; _that_ is why she will not speak, he sees. He's just fine with that.

It's his greatest fantasy come to life, really, his own personal Catwoman, ready and waiting, just for _him_...

Of course, Splendid's always modeled his career after Superman, the cartoon character that as a youth he considered goodness personified, all that a young boy should aspire to be; to him, Superman never doubted himself, for he was always right. Every move he made was automatically justified, for the simple fact that ___he __was____ Superman_... so how could Superman, and, by extension, Splendid, do any wrong?

But that didn't stop him from wanting his own Catwoman; an alluring foe to have dramatic encounters with over rooftops and atop of buildings in the clouds, a dirty-minded minx whose snakelike eyes sparkled with desire in the moonlight, a woman completely unlike him with whom to share his nights...

But _of course_ a Lois Lane of his own would be fine, wonderful even, he hastily adds, but so far he hasn't found one yet and —

He shakes his head to interrupt the unpleasant flow of his thoughts. His own personal Lois Lane would inevitably skip into his life later. Now was the time for his Catwoman. _There is _nothing_ wrong with this, _he reassures himself. He is his city's Superman, a faithful follower of the heroic values that comics and cartoons instilled within his mind since a young age. Such a pure mind is incapable of anything remotely corrupt, he thinks, and smiles at the comforting thought.

Conflicting thoughts assuaged, the flying squirrel crouches down to the wide-eyed lamb and leans in to her, achingly close. He smirks as he delivers the line he's been craving to whisper into the ear of a woman like her for so many painful, solitary years, and she can hear the smile in his voice as his breath assaults her ear in hot waves: "You've been quite a ___bad __girl_, it seems."

Automatically, a gasp sparks from the full lips of the lavender lamb, and she shivers and shrinks away from him, too terrified to meet his cold eyes. Tension descends upon them in heavy clouds, weighing down Splendid's squared shoulders and crashing down on the trembling girl, who seems to be blubbering something unintelligible.

"What's that?" He murmurs, leaning closer.

"I... I didn't do it!" Her voice hitches and her nervous stammering is amplified by her shaking form. She is quite a good actress, he notes. If he didn't know any better, he'd think she was convinced of her own innocence. "I-I _swear_ it wasn't me! I was just a-a-a-at the wrong place a-a-a-a-at the wrong time," she bleats.

His voice is heavy with sarcasm as he retorts, "Oh really? Who was it then?"

"It was Mr. Pickles!" She still won't look at him; her pale eyes are trained on the dirty ground. "H-he did it a-a-and left me with the body, then he he ra-a-a-n off, I swear, it wasn't me..." Tears form in the corners of her eyes and a suppressed sob devours her voice, leaving her sentence to fade away in the stale air.

"And where _is_ this Mr. Pickles?"

"I-I don't know, but..."

"But what? You think I'm just going to let you walk away like nothing happened? You think we'll just forgive you for decapitating somebody? You can't actually think me so stupid as to believe that story! You —_ Look at me!_"

If there is one thing he simply cannot stand, it's a criminal who refuses to admit to his or her wrongdoings, and this particular criminal is infuriating him. He takes the girl's refusal to meet his eyes as a direct challenge, a refusal to own up to what she did, and when she shivers and looks at his legs—_so close to her own_—rather than at his eyes as he wanted, it almost sets him off.

But he keeps his cool. He is the one in charge here. It is his lawful responsibility to bring this criminal to justice, and it won't do if he gets angry. So he growls dangerously, "In the _eyes_."

Sniffling loudly, she lifts her lavender eyes in an effort to meet his gaze, but she taunts him by taking her eyes on a sluggish, drawn-out journey before following his command. Her eyes cover, painfully slowly, the lengths his legs, they drift across his arms, and flutter up his torso... Then they waver at his neck, as if scared to venture any higher to where she knows cold disdain awaits, but eventually she forces her head upwards, and —

"Do you know what I'm going to do to you?" If his expression is dark, his tone is blacker than night. His eyes are cold, and she tries to back up, only to bump painfully against the jail cell's dirty wall.

Words fail her. She tries to respond, but all that escapes her lips is a gust of mumbled vowels and constants, high squealing sounds and low whimpering. It's almost pathetic, he thinks, but mostly it's _disappointing_. Where is the sharp retort, the seductive half-lidded eyelids? Why isn't she trying to talk her way out of this?

"Answer me!" He almost yells at her, but he drops his voice when he realizes that perhaps she's just toying with him. No matter what he says, she'll just play it off in a ploy of innocence.

"I—I don't know!" She almost shrieks; her voice is high and snipped tightly with anxiety. "Pl-please, don't hurt me! I—I—"

So he was right, he muses. _That's_ how she's going to play the game. She must want him to be rough. He's heard of women like that. She must be one of them—it's the only logical explanation. But if that's what she wants then he's only too happy to comply. He is a gentleman, after all, so he decides to do the gentlemanly thing and give the lady what she wants.

He heaves a dramatic sigh, startling her, before smirking. His face lightens up, no longer the shadowy figure that scowled at her moments ago, and she would be comforted if it weren't for what he said next. "Hurt you? No, no. I'd never _hurt _you. But, you did asked for _something_ when you committed that crime." He leans closer to her, puts his hand on her right knee. "You should have known I would come for you after such a heinous crime; so now, you must pay for your transgressions." He puts his other hand on her left knee. "But I'll let you off easy, this time, because it's our first... _meeting_."

With that he spreads her legs apart, and the sharp gasp that bursts from her lips...pleases him more than is appropriate. "No!" She cries, her voice hoarse from her earlier pleas and protests against the police. "You—!"

In a picture-perfect moment, he cuts her off by crashing his lips into hers, a moment just like in the movies although this is better than anything he's ever watched, because it's real, and not just a fantasy—her soft lips, moving against his own, are of pure flesh and blood, and when he opens his eyes and feels her against him he knows it's no dream.

When she squirms, flails and desperately tries to hit him with her cuffed hands, he only laughs and readjusts himself. While futile, her resistance does serve a purpose, and he unconsciously licks his lips as he sees her body writhing and squirming, almost like she's dancing for him. She pulls him from reality and drags him down into her beautiful little world; her perfume is a sweet, seductive mist that engulfs him and drives him closer to her, her hair is a cloud, floating and fluffy against his hand, and her body is a wonderland that entices him and beckons him over with rich promises, a land from which life has barred him from, though now that he's so close, he's ready to tear down the gates to reach her. Despite her crimes, he is anything but rough with her—he kisses her tenderly, but he is all-consuming with his attentions. She is his forbidden lover and these are the few shadowy but precious moments they have together before discovery.

Lust glows within him like a fire; the little flame that flickered when he first saw her cuffed up against the wall has spread like wildfire until it feels like his whole body is consumed by the need to devour every inch of her; he curses her for doing this to him, and almost misses the soft whimper she emanates when he slips his hand under her thigh.

"What did you say?" He pants, his voice husky.

"I-I said... _Please..._ no. Just no!"

Something in her voice stops him. Her voice is so low, and she sounds so quiet, so... _defeated_, almost broken. Her face is contorted in a grimace, and those little tears at the corners of her eyes he had initially dismissed as false now trickle down her cheeks, staining her face with two long, sticky rivers. Her hazy eyes are red from the crying, he just notices, and she's been crying so hard he almost wheezes and — and when did he get on _top_ of her?

Shock impales him like a lightning bolt, and he removes himself from atop the lamb's quivering form. That he could have just been so utterly _unaware_ keeps him quiet, and when he glances at her, lying there and just crying so hard, he feels like he has been just stabbed with a blade. Guilt. That is what cuts into him as he pulls his hand away from her like it was on fire and furiously rubs his head as his mind starts to swirl. This was supposed to be thrilling, exciting, a _fun_ aspect of his job as a superhero, not this. Anything but this...

Maybe this shouldn't have happened— _No,_ a hateful voice in the back of his mind spits. Of course this shouldn't have happened. When was **this** ever a part of your job description? Your duties are to rescue innocent citizens and bring peace and safety to the city, not to harm women — no, she's not _even_ a woman, can't you tell by the way she reacted to your touches that she's not a woman, she's still just a girl? How _could_ you?

She's _evil_, he hisses back at himself, so there's nothing wrong in punishing her.

And yet, she's innocent, so it would be cruel!

So chopping her best friend's head off with a woodcutter's ax is an act of innocence? Wasn't **that** cruel? Shouldn't she suffer, as they did? An eye for an eye, after all —

She's has ___schizophrenia_! His thoughts roar in protest. She couldn't help herself. Maybe she _wasn't_ lying and she really _did_ run out of pills, and she was on her way back to the doctor to replace them when her friend startled her and she lost control and she just —

So what? Even if she wasn't lying—though she most likely was, criminals always do — she's supposed to be forgiven, just like that, simply because she couldn't help herself?

Yes! She can't control herself, but you _can_—Remember Uncle Ben? With great power comes great responsibility; and you—you tried to corrupt that power! And she is your responsibility—

___Her crimes should ____**not**____ be forgiven!_She is a black hearted evildoer. A villainess. Like Poison Ivy...Catwoman...she's an Ice Queen. She has no true feelings. They —**she**— will fool you with their beauty, only to stab you with a dagger the moment you blink. I should show no mercy...!

But when has she _ever_ been seductive? — Just look at her right now; her too-tight sweater, legs parted;___look_! She's panting; her mouth is hanging open like a whore; see how she pretends to be scared and huddles away; see how her arm conveniently pushes her breasts together; she's a creature of lust — No, that is YOU. You aren't Superman and you never will be, no matter how hard you try to trick yourself; you're not even good enough to be Batman, you've heard the hateful whispers of people on the street calling you unworthy of the title of a hero, and, and, and —

And ___goddammit_, his head hurts. He groans and clutches his head in his hands. As his eyes squeeze together tightly, his vision blurs and he hisses at himself. Hatred, he feels. Hatred at himself for not being good enough, hatred for being so sick when he's supposed to be a pure hero, hatred for just... inflicting himself and his dirty fantasies on the closest girl to him—the lamb—oh—_what's her name_?

He doesn't even know her name. His shoulders slump. Another reason to be deeply ashamed. He just was intimate with a girl he didn't even know—and the intimacy wasn't even _consensual_...he shudders. The fact that he just is capable of something so dark, so horrible, unheroic and—

"Um, excuse me..?"

While she would absolutely die if put in a public place, what with her matted fur, her hair messy to the point of looking like she just rolled out of bed, and her bow astray, the time she was granted after Splendid's return to sanity — she can't think of any better way to think of it — gave her the time to compose herself, or at least dry her tears as best as she could and clear her throat. Her interjection was quiet, almost whispered, for she half wanted him to hear her and half hoped he _wouldn't_ hear, for she feared what would happen if he got angry.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry!" He suddenly exclaims, shocking Lammy. "I-I didn't mean—that wasn't me—you—I mean, it was, but I—I'm so, so sorry!"

As quickly as she can get the words to fly from her lips, she bleats out the first remotely comforting phrase she can imagine: "It's oka-a-ay," she tells him. The last thing she wants is for him to get excited.

His fingers remind her of the sharp talons of a bird of prey. He had dug his fingers into the side of his head in agony, and as he blinks at her in total surprise his stiffened fingers seem loath to leave his scalp. Like claws, they fight him as he lowers his hands from his head, but eventually they fall into the lap of the flying squirrel and lay there, limp, as he realizes she's _not_ going to be traumatized for life. "Really?" He asks, as though dumbstruck.

"Yea-a-a-ah, yes, really," she hurriedly assures him, trying to be as comforting and helpful as possible. "I mean, I...I know how it feels."

"Huh? How what feels?"

She averts his gaze, not wanting to meet his eyes after _that_. The whole world couldn't possibly offer all the distance from him that would give her complete comfort in this moment, but here, in this tiny little jail cell, she'll put as much space between them as humanely possible, and breaking off eye contact is an effective way to disconnect people, she's found. "A-a-a-h, well, um, wha-a-at I meant is," she bleats, shyly looking down at her cuffed hands rather than him, "I know how you feel... um, ha-a-a-aving voices in your head."

She wonders what on earth possessed her to try to bring up something so personal. He obviously thinks she's downright insane—but he has to realize that what just happened isn't exactly something a stereotypically healthy person would do. For reasons she can't explain, she wants to let him know that he's not alone. She's been plagued by a chaotic chorus of voices only she can hear all her life, the voice of her own insecurities, Mr. Pickles, and countless more, some of whom doctors have helped her chase away, and others that will stay with her forever. Her inner conflicts have gotten really ugly, violent, even. And well, while that violence hasn't exactly faded away—just look at what brought her here—the worst part of it is over, she thinks. Of course, given her condition, it was far worse for her, but still, she doesn't want anyone else having to go through anything even remotely similar to what she had to go through.

"H-how did you _know_?" Splendid asks in complete astonishment. _Oh god no,_ he thinks in horror. Did I say everything aloud? Did she hear every single thought—? "Did... Did I say all of that out loud?"

If she heard everything in his head, he would die. He knows it. Not literally, of course, but—the humiliation would be unbearable. His dignity would be shattered, she thinks; she pushes away an ugly voice in the back of her head who hisses, _That'd make two of us, the bastard, _because she knows in her heart that her dignity remains intact, and she proves it to the hateful devils bubbling in the back of her mind by saving Splendid's dignity with a careful assurance: "Not a-a-all of it, no. I just heard bits and pieces. But it was enough to tell you that...you know...I've been there."

"Oh, well...thanks." He almost heaves a sigh of relief, but to save the little face he has left with her he keeps it in. "I'm...glad I'm not the only one liable to... what did you say? Voices in your head." He flashes her a smile, and she is startled to see the fragility behind that smile.

She'd always seen Splendid as a titan, larger-than-life, an animal to be looked up to as his flying form was silhouetted against the unattainable sun. He seemed absolute in his abilities and insusceptible to the daily torments of those without powers. It never crossed her mind that the sanity of heroes could be just as vulnerable as her own, but maybe there isn't really such a thing as heroes, she thinks. Maybe there are just animals and living beings of all shapes, sizes, and abilities, and the ones who deliberately try to do more good than others stand out due to this and are called heroes. It's not like they're invincible, or they aren't subject to faults; they're still creatures of the earth, able to make mistakes just like everyone else.

And for some crazy reason, the thought makes her truly happy. That's one thing that ties all the creatures on the earth together: the ability to make mistakes. And that, by consequence, ties _her_ and him together, grants common ground for a broken-minded little lamb and a fallen titan, a muddled hero, to share.

"Oh, no, you're not alone at all," She insists, looking up from her hands at him. They meet eyes, and she tries to suppress a blush. Of course, her face turns pink. Still, she goes on: "Actually, I think everyone has voices in their heads. Some just more than others."

The next smile he gives her is a contagious one, a grin accompanied by a chuckle of genuine laughter, and, unable to help herself, she smiles right back at him when he says, "You know, I think you're onto something there."

They sit there like that, smiling at each other, and for a few brilliant moments the cold, colorless jail cell has been transformed into a place of chuckles and revelations about the truth.

Yet the dagger named guilt stabs at the flying squirrel again as he watches the lamb smile in bliss, and he feels beyond terrible for objectifying and almost defiling someone so... special, really. She's not Lois Lane, not by a long shot, and she's farther from Catwoman than he ever imagined. And to him, she's better than both combined.

But he still doesn't know her name. Once she's told him, the way she blushes and bleats out her name makes his cheeks turn pink for reasons that utterly fail him. He clears his throat and says, "Well then, Lammy, I think we're done here."

"Eh—? Eek!" She gasps as his heat vision incinerates the handcuffs she was wearing and frees her at last. He tells her that she is free to go, now, and when she looks up from where the handcuffs used to be she gasps when she finds an empty room and a huge hole in the ceiling.

After a couple blinks to get past her initial shock, she shakes her head and smiles to herself as she thinks her eyes catch a glimpse of a faraway flying squirrel soaring through the skies. He may not be the textbook definition of a hero, but today he did something truly admirable by putting her before himself, and his duties before his desires... she truly admires him, and for that he will be her own, personal hero.

Straightening her wool shirt and brushing her fingers through her hair, she skips out of the jail cell humming a happy tune and wondering if Mr. Pickles will be waiting for her when she returns home tonight.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Now, as Mouse Ka-Boom would say...

_Le _**Fin**_!_


End file.
